


Bruiser

by Prehensilizing



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (well maybe not "wholesome" per se), Cute, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New Joisey, No Sex, Only Wholesome Brotherly Love, Stancest - Freeform, Teen Stans, Twincest, gayyy, pinecest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 14:31:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14082996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prehensilizing/pseuds/Prehensilizing
Summary: Ford doesn't want to be Stanley's damsel in distress.





	Bruiser

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up, this is definitely another one of those "incest" things. 
> 
> The more of these I write, the more money I make in hell.

* * *

 

            It felt so wrong, asking for help like this.

            Was he weak? Yeah, probably.

            Stan sniffed, wincing at the rusty smell of blood that cloyed at his brain and seeped through his head. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. It came away red. Everything hurt.

            "Ford," he ground out through gritted teeth.

            "Stanley! What on earth happened to you?" Ford caught him by the shoulders. He raised his hand unselfconsciously to his brother's face, fingers tracing paper-light over the bruises. Stan slumped. A gross trail of snotty blood or bloody snot trickled onto his lip. Ford brushed it away without a second thought.

            "I hope this wasn't on my account," Ford whispered, knotting his eyebrows in worry.

            Stan shook his head fiercely, ears ringing. He wasn't sure if the pain was localized to his head, or if it was actually permeating the air around him.

            "I gotta... gotta-"

            "Sit down, Stanley. Please."

            Ford steered him to the mattress. His vision was hazy, but Ford's fingers never left his temples. Reality anchored him. This was their bedroom; this was their home. He was safe. 

            Ford was safe.

            "It's okay, Ley," Ford was murmuring. "I'm sorry. I'm... really sorry."

            "Sh'up."

            "Ley."

            "Ford," Stan muttered defiantly through cotton.

            "Hold still," Ford instructed.

            Stan's nose was suddenly blocked, and he panicked for a moment until he realized it was just Ford trying to stanch the blood flow with a tissue. He opened his mouth a bit, feeling all the more simian at the unfamiliar feeling of breath rushing from his throat. The air was extra thick. Ford must hate him.

            His brother didn't ask who was responsible for his injuries. Stan guessed Ford already knew - Crampelter and his goons. Who else? There wasn't much to be said.

            Ford was safe, and that was all that mattered.

            "I'm sorry," Ford muttered like a mantra, holding Stan's nose shut with one hand and using the other to dab at a cut on his chin. Stan wondered where Ford had gotten the tissue, and realized he'd grabbed it from the gap between the mattress and bedframe. Shit. He hadn't realized Ford knew about that.

            Of course Ford knew about that.

            "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," his brother repeated, over and over.

            "Sh'up Ford," Stan growled. His eyelids were swelling but he forced himself to look at Ford. "I'b okay."

            "No- Stanley-"

            "I'b okay Ford."

            Ford's breath hitched. He removed his glasses from red-rimmed eyes, scrubbing his face with the hem of his sleeve. Stan caught his wrist.

            "Hey."

            Ford choked on a sob.

            " _Ford."_

            "You don't have to defend me. You'll... ng, you'll get killed, Stanley."

            "You're by brudder."

            "I can't stand you getting hurt like this."

            "Hey," Stan said again. The repertoire of sweet nothings he'd concocted for the purpose of comforting Ford was wearing thin. "Hey."

            He pulled Ford into a hug. He was better at those, anyway. Ford's nose burrowed into his collarbone. Loathe as he was to admit it, Stan - the jock to end all jocks - actually enjoyed these embraces. He spread his hands along Ford's spine, shushing him with surprising gentleness.

            "Ley," Ford sobbed.

            "Mhm," Stan agreed, closing his sore eyes. "You sbell good."

            Ford barked a wet, surprised laugh. "I smell good?"

            "Mhm." God, was he tired. He hoped Ford would let him fall asleep soon.

            "It's buh-because I shower, knucklehead." Twelve fingers tightened their hold on his collar. Stan ignored the dig. "Actually, we should get you a fresh shirt."

            "Jus' wanna sleep, Ford."

            Ford shook his head. Reluctantly, he sat up. Stan groaned at the loss of contact.

            "Soon, Ley," Ford promised. "Just..."

            Stan felt butterfly fingertips at his waist, and his eyes snapped open. Ford gripped the hem of his shirt and slowly, gently, pulled the dirty fabric over his head. Stan's ribs creaked in protest but he lifted his arms, too surprised to do anything else. Ford's face was flushed.

            "Got to get you out of these bloody clothes," Ford explained, less for Stanley's benefit than his own. He adjusted his glasses self-consciously, trying hard to avoid touching Stan's bare chest. "Just- sorry- there."

            Stan would have to remember that face, in the morning. No hesitation at touching a tissue from his personal stash for the sake of first aid, but visibly embarrassed at skin-to-skin contact. That was his Ford.

            It was... cute. That was the only word for it.

            Oh, Ford.

            "Thanks," he rasped, as Ford grabbed a shirt from the drawer - one of his own, Stan didn't fail to notice. That was all right. Wearing his brother's clothes was something he didn't do often, but always felt nice. The cotton brushed unfamiliarly against his bruises, but the fit was, of course, perfect. "Sbells good too. Like you."

            Ford blushed again. Stan risked a small smile, ignoring the shoots of pain it sent across his cheekbones. He wondered if Ford knew how obvious his crush was.

            "No problem," Ford mumbled. His eyes were still painfully red.

            "Sleeb wid me?"

            It slipped out - he hadn't meant to ask that. But once the words were said, he didn't really feel like taking them back. Ford's expression was worth it.

            "Oh- uh-"

            "Cob here," Stan offered quietly. He opened his palms, like you would for a stray animal. Hot meal. Safe place to sleep. Come here.

            "Stanley, I don't know if that's the best-"

            "Ford," Stan silenced him. "It's okay."

            "Oh... heh, all right, I suppose, I just-"

            Stan scooped his brother onto his chest. The thin pillow accepted their combined weight, soft in all the right places. Ford let out a long, shaky breath. Stan coaxed one of his hands into a soft hold, twining their fingers together, loving the way Ford's extra digit supported his pinkie.

            "I just don't want you to get hurt." Ford sniffed.

            "Let me do the worryin' for a bit," Stan whispered. He squeezed his hand. His face must be pretty messed up - Ford was more distressed than usual.

            "I care about you too much to lose you," Ford said, so quiet Stanley almost didn't catch it.

            "Hey," Stan said, again. He decided he really needed to come up with something better than 'hey.'

            "I'b not goin' anywhere. Probise."

            "Ley..."

            "I lob you."

            "You... what?"

            "I lob you, nerd. You heard me."

            Ford snorted, a little thing that began somewhere in his nose and blossomed into a full-throated laugh. He laughed for a long time. It made Stan happy. He loved Ford's laugh.

            "Ley..." Ford chuckled.

            "Yeah."

            "I lob you, too."


End file.
